What happens when an imaginative kid finds himself in a series of creatively bankrupt jobs as an adult? What will he do when he's forced to grow up? "Emblogification Capture Device" is a humorous exploration of education, career, employment, lifestyle, politics and pop culture.
For the past nineteen years, This Hour Has 22 Minutes has been taped before a live studio audience in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I've always wanted to go but procuring tickets and getting away from work before 6 pm was always a challenge. But I am limited no more! Thanks to the diligent effort of Dale Willman with the HalifACTS! local actors group, I finally got a chance to go this past Monday night.
We packed into the lobby of the CBC building on the corner of South Park and Sackville, taking great pains to ensure that no-one was left outside in the bitter cold (lest we find them later on stuck to the sidewalk like a morsel of discarded Juicy Fruit). At the appointed time we were herded upstairs, plied with cheap wine and then led into the studio.
Show writer / utility cast member / stand-up impresario Albert Howell soon appeared to warm up the crowd and introduce the cast. The show's current roster includes:
It was fascinating to watch the show get pieced together right before our very eyes. Coming back from "commercial" a wide or overhead shot would establish the studio set and audience. The floor camera would then track in on a designated cast member as they pitched their punchline in front of an appropriate graphic.
Occasionally Albert would instruct us to watch a previously-taped segment in the monitors overhead and react appropriately. Conveniently we seemed to default to laughter thanks to the pointed political barbs and the sharp delivery of the collective cast.
As funny as the material was, I'd like to humbly pitch my own cost-conscious but otherwise winning idea for a new CBC television show. Just take the entire 22 Minutes cast, sit 'em all around a table, give each of them a bottle of that complementary wine you tried to get us loaded on, start throwing topics out and then film the resulting hilarity. I call it Funny People Sitting around a Table and Making Fun of Stuff. Trust me, this idea is money.
The most compelling evidence that his idea would work: the side-splitting improv served by the cast up when the cameras weren't rolling. Mark Critch killed with his "Girls Night Out" diagnosis of the audience, which culminated in a breathy rendition of "Man, I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain. Shaun Majumder crankily poked holes in every skit and segment as his alter-ego "Captain Logic" asserted himself. Cathy Jones charmed with her vaguely befuddled mutterings and confessed to an appreciation of all things "schmutz".
Mark also spent many of the breaks mercilessly hounding one of
the floor cameramen who'd worked on the quintessentially banal CBC television program Land & Sea. The show was notorious for documenting the most mundane minutia that went on in rural and outport Newfoundland.
"What didya like best?" Mark baited. "Was it 'Land' or
did you prefer 'Sea'? My God, so many great episodes to choose from,heh, wah? Hard to pick a favorite. Was it 'The Cow is Sick'? 'Let's Paint
The Shed'? Or maybe 'It's Wet Outside, Let's Go In'?"
Since I'd tried (unsuccessfully) many times to watch Land & Sea as a youngster, I spent most of this time apoplectic with laughter. I nearly asphyxiated when Mark's tormenting escalated:
"You must have been like a rock star when you were filming there, eh?" Critch pursued. "I imagine all the women were like: 'OoOoo,
'ee's from the CBC!' There's probably an illegitimate, puffy-haired,
headset-wearin' baby in every outport in Newfoundland thanks to you!"
After the main show was wrapped, the cast was kind enough to treat us to a few bonus skits. First off, Susan Kent and Cathy Jones did a side-splitting deconstruction of Valentine's Day (culminating in HalifACT-or and birthday girl Helen Corkum receiving a rose from Shaun Majumder). Then Mark Critch interviewed Meredith MacNeill as a tightly wound, anti-spanking crusader and Cathy Jones as a twitchy, destructive, Tourette's-prone witness for the defense. It not hard to tell that sketch comedy is Cathy's arena. She was pure, inspired genius.
Shaun and Mark were kind enough to hang around with us after the show. They patiently let themselves be pawed at by the adoring masses and photographed like exotic wildlife. I, for one, couldn't let an opportunity go by without praising Mark for his spot-on impersonation of bionically eye-browed political contrarian / walking thesaurus Rex Murphy.
Despite being under the weather, Shaun was a gracious host, shaking hands with everyone and chatting amicably. If you're not familiar with his work, you need to rectify that post haste. As someone who spent their formative years growing up in Newfoundland, I'm a really easy mark for stand-up bits like the following.
(WARNING: not suitable for work. ALSO: funny as shit)
There's a reason why such a disproportionate amount of Canadians (and an even more disproportionate amount of Newfoundlanders) have achieved international success as comedians. They're genuinely funny, self-depreciating, sharp, charismatic and approachable.
For me, this wasn't just a simple television show taping. Newfoundland has a long, proud tradition of sketch comedy. Back in 1980, our provincial network NTV started broadcasting a variety show featuring the Wonderful Grand Band. For three years they kept the entire population of the province entertained with their unique blend of music and skits. In addition to launching the recording career of Ron Hynes, the comedy skits featuring Greg Malone and Tommy Sexton from CODCO soon became the stuff of local legend.
So influential was this show, that it inspired me and my two cousins Donna and Debbie to come up with a set of recurring characters and comedy bits centered around a fictional Newfoundland radio station. We'd do them live at the drop of a hat for any relatives foolish enough to ask and then tape record it for posterity.
Eventually Donna (wisely) came to her senses and disowned the two of us. Me and Deb tried to forge on as a duo for awhile but, like Donna, we eventually outgrew it. A part of me still thinks I may have kept up with it if my school had offered any kind of drama class. And I didn't have a crippling fear of strangers.
Long after WGB left the air, Greg Malone and Tommy Sexton were approached by the CBC to do a new show. They assembled fellow troupers Cathy Jones, Mary Walsh and Andy Jones and, in 1987, CODCO began as a half-hour sketch comedy show following the wildly-popular Kids In The Hall. Canadians nation-wide were finally exposed to our own unique blend of Newfoundland humor and merciless levels of parody. Lord help them.
CODCO packed it in 1992 but a year later This Hour became the default showcase for regional talent. A pastiche of SNL's Weekend Update, social and political commentary and traditional Newfoundland humor, the show came loaded to bear with a slew of crazy characters and inspired segments. They included:
Mary Walsh as Marg Delahunty, "Princess Warrior"
Rick Mercer just Talking to Americans
Cathy Jones as the inhumanly wise Mrs. Enid
Greg Thomey as sad-sack politician Jerry Boyle
Gavin Crawford as acne-ridden teen Mark Jackson
Mark Critch as Newfoundland's delightfully gonzo ex-premier Danny Williams
Geri Hall as Avery Adams, Single Female Voter
and persistently moist Indian sports reporter Raj Binder
The names and faces may have changed on This Hour Has 22 Minutes over the past nineteen years, but the show remains true to its mission statement and continues to serve as a tremendous showcase for Newfoundland comedians.
I just kick myself for not getting out to a taping of CODCO when I had the chance. Idiot!
EPIC: Watch full episodes of This Hour Has 22 Minutes right here.
EVEN MORE EPIC: Wonderful Grand Man! All smiles after a chance meeting with WGB / CODCO Comedy legend Greg Malone at his book signing at Keshen Goodman Public Library.
NO FAIL, JUST SAD: We were all left considerably poorer by the premature departure of comedic genius Tommy Sexton.
A part of me was hoping to get into Corner Brook one of the days I was home during Christmas but it just wasn't in the cards. Considering the last time I was there, however, perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.
Y'see, growing up in Stephenville (a small town on the west coast of Newfoundland) in the Eighties was tough for an imaginative (read: "geeky") kid. If you were lucky and you could time it just right, you might score a few dog-eared comic books at the Sweet Shoppe or A.V. Gallant's variety stores, but it was hit or miss. It's not like you could have set up a subscription service with a corner store.
I personally kept VHS rental joints like The Video Screen and Debbie's Video Shoppe (hmmm, was that a "shop" or a "shoppe"? I can't remember now...) in business single-handedly. It's because of awesome mom n' pop places like this that I first saw all the sc-fi, horror, drama, action, comedy and fantasy confections that gave me an imagination and creative spark as an adult.
But if you wanted comics, cassette tapes, board games, toys or any other flights of fantasy flotsam you were kinda S.O.L. After all, these were the days before E-Bay and well, er...the internet. Me and my circle of peeps would speak in hushed tones about stores in far-away lands where you could just walk in and procure The Dark Knight Returns trade paperback, a copy of Ronnie James Dio's Sacred Heart album or Leading Edge's Aliens board game all in one fell swoop.
But in Stephenville, if you wanted shit like that you had to mail away orders to places like American Comics. Often times your order had to be sent in with a list of alternates in case what you were asking for was sold out by the time they got your letter. I don't know how many times I'd get a delivery, feverishly rip open the box and be crushed because three-quarters of what I ordered wasn't there.
Listen, I'm not one to get all sanguine and sentimental about growing up in a small town in the Eighties, folks. Frankly, if you had interest or hobbies like mine, it kinda sucked.
But there was hope. There was a reprieve. There was...
Corner Brook
Now, I'm pretty sure that if you search the town's website or pour through it's tourism brochures, you won't see Corner Brook described as an 'Oasis' anywhere. But I'm tellin' you right now, in all honesty, as a kid, a trip to Corner Brook was akin to going to friggin' Manhattan.
I have very precious memories of being taken out of school on a Friday afternoon by my folks. My Dad would use the weak-ass excuse that he had business in town. Business that apparently couldn't have been done on, say, Saturday or any other day of the week, but I certainly didn't complain.
Makes me wonder if Math class was in the afternoon. It would certainly explain my deplorable showing in that particular subject.
Anyhoo, as soon as the announcement was made, I'd be so giddy with excitement that I could barely pay attention in class that morning. Er, more so than usual, I mean. The forty-five minute pilgrimage would often be spent looking at indistinguishable tree-packed scenery, reading stale magazines or adding fuel to the fire if one of my parents was tormenting the other.
The last ten minutes before arrival was allocated to preparation of singing the official "Corner Brook Arrival Celebratory Anthem". Just as we cleared city limits me and Dad would strike up with our respective tunes. If I remember correctly, my selection was an original composition called "We're Here Because We're Here" (which, co-incidentally, was the extent of the lyrics for the entire song) and Dad's contribution was that timeless, yet unheard-of classic "Down on the Labrador". Mom added her own two-cents by shaking her head and maintaining that we were all "touched".
Eventually we realized just how stupid and juvenile this was, so we stopped doing it about three years ago.
Our first stop would typically be at The Glynmill Inn, a beautiful, Victorian-style manor overlooking Glynmill Pond. To me, it always seemed like an incongruous oasis within itself: a pretty, picturesque, sylvan garden and manor smack-dab in the middle of mountainous, serpentine streets, strip malls, Honda dealerships and the omnipresent sulfurous reek of the nearby Abitibi Price pulp and paper mill.
The Inn was the home of The Ewing Gallery, presided over in the Eighties by Lance and Tess Ewing. I always though that this stately couple were as out of place amongst the indigenous population as the Inn was amongst the city. I always wanted to know if they were natives. I always suspected that they were exiled "Mr. & Mrs. Smith"-style retired American Secret Agents who had chosen to go incognito in Corner Brook because they thought it was "quaint".
Lance always reminded me of a gregarious, rugged version of Heinein-award winning science fiction writer Arthur C.Clarke. Tess (who I'd nick-named "Tessica" for some reason) was considerably more ethereal. Whenever we had to swing by their house instead of the galley we would sometimes get a rare glimpse of her in a window or doorway: a slender apparition in a housecoat. At my Dad's art exhibits, however, she was always elegant, well-spoken and dignified.
I have the utmost warm feelings for these virtual strangers. It's because of their sponsorship of my Dad's artwork he managed to help me pay for university and as a result I didn't graduate under an insurmountable avalanche of debt.
After all the professional artist business was concluded, we'd often have lunch at the relatively opulent Carriage House dining room at the Inn. Being a stupid kid with a woefully underdeveloped palate I'd often opt for just a simple muffin so I wouldn't spoil my appetite for the eagerly awaited repast which would inevitably conclude out visit.
Just for the record, though, the last time I checked about three years ago, they still made the best apple cinnamon muffins in the galaxy.
The highlight of our trip would follow soon after: a trip to The Valley Mall. Speaking as someone who absolutely hates venturing into a mall now, it's amusing in retrospect when I think about how important this place was to me once. In the Eighties, the Valley Mall was the friggin' shiznit.
Coles bookstore was another highlight. Here I might find a trashy compendium of sci-fi or horror films, a movie review guide or a Star Wars book (which, towards the end of the decade became increasingly scarce as people became all Star Wars-ed out).
Another lynchpin for me: The Fun Villa arcade. It was great being in an arcade which was the antithesis of the one in Stephenville. It wasn't dirty, smoky or a place where I'd be offered weed every two minutes. Here I could watch teenagers play Pac-Man (the machine was always w-a-a-a-a-a-y too busy for snots like me to even get close to it), destroy the Death star umpteen times in the vector graphics Star Wars game and guide "Winky" the plucky, well-rounded hero of Venture through an electronic, snakealicious, neon maze.
Other stops might include a trip to the pet store to get food for my pet tarantula Max. I was aware at the time how long these spiders could live and always wondered if she'd still be around when I was forty. Alas, here I am and she only passed away just recently after being the star attraction at the Deer Lake Insectarium for the past six years!
When comic books became a hot commodity some enterprising dude had the foresight to open up a shop on Park Street. I was an easy mark for this guy and my folks would often indulge my weakness for Batman and X-Men comics as well as Empire Strikes Back trading cards and various hard-to-acquire toys.
The last time I went to Corner Brook a few years ago, I went back to his shop at its new location on Broadway. Much to my disbelief the guy still recognized me. Either Newfoundlanders are so in tune with people that they never forget a face or I bought so much crap from him in the Eighties that I made a lasting impression.
The store itself was in chaos. It looked as if someone had dynamited a warehouse of Todd McFarlane toys and then hung up an hours of operation sign. Nothing was organized. Nothing was priced. Thank God he was preoccupied with another customer since I was almost killed in a live-action game of Jenga when I made the mistake of looking for a price tag on some 3.5 edition D&D manuals.
I managed to extricate myself without too much awkward, "Jedi Mind Trick"-style pushy sales conversation. Although I found some tempting wares (like a Tony Esposito figure from McFarlane's hockey series, a few Marvel Legends I didn't have and some sweet-ass horror film figs by Neca), the total absence of price tags terrified me.
I also made a tactical error when I mentioned out loud that I'd rabidly collected hockey cards every single year except (for some stupid reason) 1979, which was Wayne Gretzky's rookie year. Well, when he overheard this, told me that he had it and was willing to part with it for a paltry $600.00. In retrospect, that probably wasn't such a bad deal.
On the way out, the owner (who's name I've never known), said loudly: "Hey! Make sure you bring $600.00 back for that set!", half-joking and half deadly serious.
My last tour through the Valley Mall about four years ago was pretty depressing. The upper level, once dominated by a large Zellers, upscale clothing stores and the entrance to a computer tech school (Keyin Tech? Beothic Data Processing?) had all been cleared out to make room for the employment equivalent of The House of Pain: an ICT Call Center. Eeeeesh.
It wasn't much better downstairs. Coles bookstore was gone. The Fun Villa (not to mention 98% of all arcades from the Eighties)...GONE! A&A Records...GONE! This was replaced by a CD Plus, where I took pity on the bored staff and bought an Arctic Monkeys CD to give them a highlight for their day. Leisure World was still hanging on. I trekked to the back of the store, hoping to find a perfectly preserved mother-lode of Eighties board gaming artifacts just sitting there, waiting for some savvy collector who knows their value to rescue them from a life of eternal neglect. Instead all I find are endless, boring shelves of yarn, Styrofoam balls and tole paints.
Even the food court has been gutted. For a moment I pause and mourn the Borg-like assimilation of the mom n' pop Burger World into a Tim Horton's kiosk before moving on.
Back in the Eighties, we'd leave the Shangri-La sensory overload of the Valley Mall and make our way up to the Corner Brook Plaza for a meal fit only for an advertisement-indoctrinated twelve year old. Back then the Plaza was, in the immortal words of Kevin Smith, the 'Dirt Mall'. At the time it was anchored by a K-Mart on life support and featured cheesy Newfoundland bric-a-brac stores and discount clothing outlets. The only draw for me in this mall back then was the "methinks thou dost protest too much" Family Bookstore, which was a schizophrenic pastiche of magazines (including some you wouldn't think to find in a so-called "Family" bookstore), pop paperbacks, Newfoundland music tapes, and cake pans (?).
But the other big pull to visit this mall: they had a real, live McDonald's.
Like so many other kids in the Seventies and Eighties, McDonald's was always a pretty big fixture in my life. When we moved away from Sydney, Nova Scotia (where a trip to the notorious Sydney River location http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sydney_River_McDonald%27s_murders was quite common) and moved to Stephenville, this childhood institution was ripped away from me.
Exiled from what I considered to be civilization at the time, I lamented the introduction of such major childhood technological developments as the Chicken McNugget. American-sourced Saturday Morning cartoons were torture for me as Grimace, the Hamburglar and chief ringleader himself Ronald McDonald tempted me with their unattainable, transfat-tastical wares.
The only available option to appease my prepubescent fast-food cravings were home-made, non-flavor engineered burgers which recalled this awesome Eddie Murphy skit:
Or, A&W, which, at the time, I'd dubbed "A & Double-Spew".
Just like everything else, Corner Brook got an A&W first, which resulted in an unfortunate onion-related mishap. Back then the venerable fast-food franchise was going through a bit of an identity crisis. In an ill-guaged attempt to be more contemporary (I suppose), they'd eliminated their classic "burger family" menu in lieu of some new taste "treats". Instead of using yummy, kid-friendly minced onion on their burgers like McDonalds, they started using huge, sauteed, slivered onions.
And let me tell ya folks, nothing says "tastes like evil" to a twelve year old's palate like huge sauteed slivered onions.
I remember one trip when Dad relented and took us to A&W for lunch in Corner Brook. I got one of these new-fangled burgers and closed by eyes hoping the fast-food trappings (paper wrapper, undeniably burger-like appearance, omnipresent fries) would trick me into thinking I was partaking of my precious McDonalds.
One bite was enough to convince myself otherwise. I could instantly detect the nauseating texture of huge, slivered, half-cooked onions. I almost yarfed right there in the back seat of the car.
Dad tried to remedy the situation by scraping most of the onions off. Unfortunately he scraped them right onto the floor of the car. Later we tried to find as many as the pungent f&^%$^& as we could, but that car stunk like onions until we unloaded it (at a severely depreciated price) many years later.
I also found out down the road that the only food my Dad hates with a passion is half-cooked, slimy onions. Co-incidence? I think not...
So when Stephenville got it's own ersatz A&W years later I never darkened it's doors. In fact, before the franchise came to it's senses and realized they had an untapped vein of nostalgic gold on their hnads our hometown location soon closed down. Fast-forward a few years later and A&W experienced a miraculous resuscitation when they re-instituted the old, familiar, raw-onionated Burger clan (The Momma Burger, The Papa Burger, The Teen Burger , The Baby Burger, The Uncle Burger, The Grandpa Burger, The (Obviously Named After A Distant Italian Relative) Mozza Burger, and the presumably forthcoming Second-Cousin- Twice-Removed Burger).
Well, when Corner Brook got a McDonald's in the early Eighties, that was like taking wonderful and giving it a healthy dollop of awesome sauce. I have very fond memories of Dad finishing up an exhibit at the Glynmill Inn, taking us up to McDonald's in the plaza parking lot and letting me gorge myself on a twenty pack of Frankensteinian, mechanically separated Chicken McNuggets.
And this was back in the day when you were excited to bite into one that wasn't gray on the inside.
It also has to be mentioned around this time I developed a debilitating, life-long phobia of drive-thru's thanks to my Dad. Quite often he'd deliberately mis-pronounce things, make shit up out of the blue, request items that weren't even on the menu or ask for a side-order of "smiles". The poor girls manning the wickets were probably feeling debased enough in their day-glo, lime-green, MARK I-era uniforms (which, I'm surprised, didn't kill the appetite of the average customer even before they'd ordered) without having to contend with such smart-assery.
Hmmmm, I wonder how many loogie-burgers we ate over the years?
Well, of course, now I live in a place where I could re-enact my very own Super Size-Me experiment every day of the week. Even Stephenville has it's own McDonald's now. Between this and digesting such unappetizing but enlightening fare as Fast Food Nation and Food Inc., needless to say, the place holds very little appeal for me anymore.
Well, the last time I went to Corner Brook Plaza a few years ago it had realized it's revenge by laying low its hated rival, the once-proud Valley Mall. It had experienced a complete Renaissance, and was now chock-a-block with high end clothing stores and a pilfered and regenerated Coles bookstore. In other words, it had become just like any other boring, small-town generic mall on the planet.
I haven't been back in a few years, but it's my understanding that the Valley Mall is now entirely dedicated to commercial space. It's inadvertent role as a haven for geeky childhood interests had been swept away.
Funny how the progress of time can sometimes feel like de-evolution for someone still in commune with their inner child. Even though everything I could ever want is within my fingertips I still cherish how important these modest touchstones were for a somewhat lonely, awkward, imaginative kid seeking solace and escape from the ordinary.
Farewell, Fun Villa, wherever you are.
EPIC: Information on the City of Corner Brook. Please note that the city still seems insistent on using the bland slogan "Our Spirit...Your Success" versus the considerably more esoteric "Oasis For Geekery in the Eighties". Oh, well. http://www.cornerbrook.com/
ALSO EPIC-ISH: The Valley Mall doesn't have a website since it's deader than Fatty Arbuckle but it looks like there's a new comics/toys/boardgames store opened up in town. Good to see that rural Newfoundland geeks still have a home! http://thelair.ca/
Sorry it's been so long since I've posted. Here are my prerequisite weak-ass excuses:
I just spent nine days in a place where consistent internet reliability is still in the theoretical stages.
I'm spending all my free time editing a six-hundred and sixty-five page book which is the equivalent of working on a term paper THAT NEVER GOES AWAY.
'Tis the season for sloth.
Between reading Ken Follett's Pillars of the Earth and J.W. Rinzler's amazing The Making of The Empire Strikes Back I've been as distracted as a kid with O.C.D. at Comic-Con.
Nothing of any real pressing import has inspired me to write.
But write I must and write I shall. I just wanted to take a moment to observe what it was like to spend a brief amount of time back home in Newfoundland for Christma..., er, The Holidays.
According to a census in 2001 the population in Newfoundland and Labrador was 508,875. Of that population, 187,445 call themselves Catholic and 303,200 were listed as Protestant. That means that under 2% of the population is of a different faith. Now, granted, this was ten years ago, but trust me when I tell you that Newfoundland still isn't what I'd describe as a religious melting pot.
Frankly, it's fascinating to spend ten days in a place who's provincial home-grown television station NTV unabashedly wishes all of it's viewers a "Merry Christmas!". Or the local weekly TV guide The Newfoundland Herald innocently features a nativity scene on the cover. Everywhere I went people were throwing around the sentiment of "Merry Christmas!" with such gratuitous, gleeful, reckless abandon I felt like I was ten years old again.
Lemme tell ya, folks, these people certainly don't need any tired, cliched signs on the side of a church to be reminded that "Jebus is the Reason for the Aforementioned Season". They have four-hundred and ninety thousand other residents to do it for them!
For someone who's worked in anally-retentive/overtly-politically-correct environments for the past fifteen years this was a bit of a system shock. After all I've witnessed a company's solicitation policies invoked when someone tried to give a co-worker a Christmas card. I've witnesses the equivalent of a U.N. debate when it was proposed that the name of the annual "Christmas Party" be changed to the blandly non-committal "Winter Gala". When someone asked if they could "wish their customers 'Merry Christmas'?" the powers-that-be answered "Well, if in doubt go with a nice, generic, non-threatening 'Happy Holidays'!" then I always erred on the side of caution and never said it at all.
Thanks to a long line of work-related authority figures I came to view those two words as the sentimental equivalent of touching a hot burner on a stove.
But this really didn't upset me very much. In a way, I think their concern is justified. Trust me, I'm not a very religious person (read: at all) and I despise thoughts of exclusion. I hated it when my Muslim pal Sohail in Grade Four had to put his head down or leave the room when we said the Lord's prayer in school. I would also cringe when I overheard ignorant yahoos wish their contact at "Meyer & Rabinowitz Law Firm" a Merry Christmas.
But there's something so charmingly innocent about spending time in Newfoundland during this time of year. It's like being in an episode of Mad Men with less misogyny and a bit more drinking.
Look, I know our world is more multicultural then ever, and frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way. I like variety in my fellow global co-inhabitants. Different people and their beliefs makes living on this particular planet all the more interesting.
But the innocent child in me still wants permission to gleefully and giddily wish people an uninhibited "Merry Christmas". I don't want to feel as if I've just gotten away with something on those rare occasion when I say it or experience pangs of regret for uttering a sentiment that is, in this day and age, seems almost anarchically naive and exclusive.
Those days may be gone which makes me a little sad. And also strangely relieved...
Some grief comes from traveling with my fellow Newfoundlanders who generally like to avoid air travel at all costs. When forced to fly they often appraise the aircraft with a level of skepticism exhibited only by "The Amazing Randi" when asked to test drive a flying carpet. And, in some ways, I think they're justified.
The second to last time I flew into DeerLake it was pretty intense. It was a Dash-8 again and we were thrown around a lot coming in for a landing. There were quite a few audible exclamations and the guy sitting next to me acted as if he were listening to some irresistible jig, the heel of his foot beating out a continuous ode to terror.
My experience on the way back was particularly odd, but this time it had nothing to do with the weather. The plane was filled with teenagers escorted by teachers, bringing to mind such cozy relationships as Kate Austen and Edward Mars on "LOST".
Anyhoo, I just assumed that they were part of some team, class or band.
I'm window-seat bound towards the front of the plane next to a short-haired kid with his head down. I stood there in the aisle for a bit waiting for him to acknowledge my presence. I really need for him to move in order for me to sit down. I shuffle around obviously. Nothing. I tried clearing my throat. Zip. I grazed him slightly with my coat. Zilch.
Eventually I blurt out: "Uh, excuse me, but I think I'm supposed to be sitting by the window." He mutters "Yeah, okay" but doesn't budge, forcing me to pull a Tyler Durden and either give him the crotch or the ass. I leerily opted for the former if only because this allowed me an incrementally precious amount of additional clearance.
Not two seconds after being seated he asked me: "So, you're sitting here, are you?" and I thought to myself: 'Hmmm, odd question. I thought we'd covered that already.' I managed a grateful-sounding "Yeah, thanks" and then struggled to shoe-horn my bag under the seat in front of me.
The bag ended up on top of what I thought were drum sticks until I realize it's a collapsible cane. So, he wasn't being a rude prick after all! He's blind! Well, color me an asshole!
I finally get a good look at him. He resembled a youthful combination of Henry Rollins and "Sling Blade". His eyes were clearly atrophied. Before the plane took off the flight attendant came over to address him personally. His slightly-to-the-left-of-center responses made me wonder if there wasn't a less obvious issue he was struggling with.
The guy across the aisle began chatting with him but soon stopped when the kid starts reaming off "Rain Man"-like stats about aircraft makes and models. "Mr. Friendly" gets a bit freaked out by this and spent the rest of the flight watching me try and contend with him with growing amusement.
Mercifully we got airborne without a hitch. I tried to feign sleep but since he couldn't see my terrible performance, he started lobbing questions at me. At first his comments were restricted to observations about how "smooth" the flight was, to the point where he seemed to be in a state of nirvana.
I soon got the impression that he'd been through some rough flights before on aircraft like Dash-8's and was likely relieved by the relative stability of the small jet we're on.
I initially agree with him about his dubious appraisals of the Dash-8's but inadvertently piss him off later when he asked my opinion of "power saws". I told him that I didn't know very much about "power saws", not realizing until later that this was his nickname for Dash-8's based entirely on the noise that they make (please see Part I).
As I'm trying to puzzle out his cryptic references, he's reaming off aircraft model numbers, asking if I've ever flown on any of them. I tried to explain that I'd been on a lot of different planes but never remember their names, (gosh darn it!) While all this is happening people seated within earshot are staring at me, waiting for me to give an answer that might cause him to snap and beat me to death with his folding lunch tray.
I thank the powers that be for the complete absence of turbulence since I think that would have set him off.
All the while he seems on the verge of tears of happiness because the flight is so "smooth". The stewardess came by several times just to make sure he's alright but apparently she had no idea that I even existed.
Things took a decidedly more surreal turn when he started talking about a flight he took out west. He starts name-dropping "celebrities" that were on the same flight, none of whom I recognize.
Before I can reply he asks me if I have kids. Before I can answer he tells me that his dog just died. Before I can offer sympathies he tells me he's going to Halifax for a "co-op". Before I can get an elaboration he asks me to speculate as to what sound his cat would likely make if it were here on the plane with us. Before I can give my best "See N' Say" aircraft-trapped cat yowl he begins to panic because the stewardess (who's name and the name of all of her sister he can recall in a flash) doesn't return in a timely manner to pick up his drink glass.
I try another Oscar-worthy stab at sleep-fakery. It half-works and the awkward Q&A ceased for a bit.
I almost feel envy for the poor guy when the landing gear came down and there was no indication of solid ground below us due to the heavy fog. I fact, I didn't even know we we're landing until the runway appeared out of nowhere ten feet below us.
He grilled me with questions about the sound the landing gear made and the time it will take for us to nuzzle up to the terminal. I felt like mashing the call attendant button and telling the stewardess "Hey! You're trained for this, you talk him through it!"
Even after the entire plane had nearly cleared out he was still sitting there, making no effort whatsoever to get up. Now, I'm not asking him to get off the plane by himself, just stand up and let me leave. When I told him I was coming through all he did was shift his legs back incrementally. I wedged my way past (ass option this time) and fled from the increasingly claustrophobic quarters with relief.
Now I've avoided flying home for Christmas the last two years since weather played major havoc with my last trip back to Halifax three years ago. At that time I was diverted to St. John's and my luggage went M.I.A. for nine days. This disaster made up my mind that I'd visit my folks back home in Newfoundland only during the summer months since the weather should be considerably better.
"Should be" being the operative words there.
Taking a flight at 4:30 kinda sucks since you tend to hang around all day feeling anxious. There was little obvious reason for this on my last flight back from Deer Lake to Halifax since it was a beautiful day, weather wise, in Deer Lake. We showed up a good hour before our flight was slated to leave and breezed through the nigh-deserted airport's prerequisite steps for departure. We achieve gate-proximity within a few minutes (not much of a challenge since all five gates at the Deer Lake airport are within twenty meters of one other) and took a seat by the window to watch our plane come in.
As we began to board in earnest, my considerably more significant other noticed that her distinctive aqua-blue suitcase had been taken off the plane and was now back on the baggage cart. As I handed my boarding pass to the gatekeeper I asked him what's the deal was with the bag and he replied:
"Well, the weather in Halifax is really bad with heavy fog and electrical storms. We may have to take on extra fuel. If we do that, we have to compensate by bumping some bags."
Before I could formulate the appropriate rebuttal he plowed on with a perfectly-groomed customer-service honed spiel:
"If your bag doesn't arrive at your final destination just fill out a missing claim form at the other end. We have another flight going out to Halifax this evening. Your bag will be on that flight for sure, and we'll delivered right to your door, free off charge."
"The last time that happened it took nine days for our suitcases to arrive!" I said, managing to finally managing to wedge in a protest.
"Oh no, that won't happen this time," the gatekeeper assured us while waving us through. "Now if you'll just step on board we'll be underway shortly."
We walked out to the plane, wistfully looking at our bag sitting forlorn on the cart like Lassie. For some reason the troubling cause for it being left behind was distant in our thoughts. But, lo and behold, we got some good news not long after. We were seated close enough to the (mercifully doored) cockpit to hear the captain tell the ground crew to put the rest of the luggage back on the plane. We cheered our small victory as the now-empty baggage cart pulled away.
The flight itself was textbook. To borrow a descriptor from an old buddy of mine, I'd even call it "smooth". We got lurched around a bit going up but soon the seat belt sign was off, and I was contentedly listening to Black Sabbath and reading "Pillars of the Earth" while being served juice and flax corn chips.
We made great time and soon heard the announcement that we'll be landing in twenty minutes. We stowed our gear, strapped in and felt the distinctive sensation of descent as the landing gear popped. Nonplussed by the total lack of visibility below us and the flare of lightning in the distance, the good old Dash-8 began a bumpy plunge deeper into the pea-soup fog bank.
The cabin suddenly went very dark. An uncomfortable amount of time passed without seeing tarmac lights and feeling that distinctive, cathartic sensation of touchdown. The bounce started to get worse and my already-skittish fellow Newfoundlanders began to murmur oaths of surprise and divine requests for deliverance.
Then, all of a sudden, the plane lurched into a power climb like a Japanese Zero that had reconsidered the whole "kamikaze" plan at the last second. We climbed and climbed for what seems like an eternity and the "powersaws" sounded as if they were straining to get us back up to cruising altitude. The landing gear was pulled back into the belly of the plane like rubber and steel testicles.
This was not good. I'd never experienced anything like this before.
Eventually the captain of the plane came on the P.A. system and explained that the unusually thick fog and strong cross-winds (only in the Maritimes, folks) were preventing us from landing in Halifax at that time. We were now en route to an alternate airport to land, refuel and wait for further instructions.
And what was that alternate airport, you ask?
Not Moncton or Charlottetown, which would likely have only been about a half-hour away. That would make sense!
We we're headed to Stephenville.
Now I was privy to some inside knowledge that many of my other passengers weren't aware of. Namely:
Stephenville, being virtually closed, likely had limited to non-existent air traffic control, runway and terminal staff.
All the excess baggage was put back on board instead of taking on extra fuel.
On the morose trip back I'm left to ponder the absurdity of all this. As I explained in Part I of this tale, service to Stephenville has been progressively scaled back over the years with the more distant and less-resourceful Deer Lake airport taking up the slack. That means that to go home and come back I can no longer directly fly in and out of Stephenville where my parents actually live. Nooooo, they have to shlep two hours to Deer Lake to pick my ass up and drive me back out there to go home.
Yet now Stephenville's airport was suddenly good enough to pull our collective asses out of the fire?
I waited and waited for the captain to switch off the seat belt sign but it didn't happen. This wasn't good at all. I'd promised my acorn-sized bladder, which started to pester me for attention as early as mid-flight, that we'd be on the ground soon, sparing us both a trip to the bathroom. I knew the Dash-8 washrooms made the "Little Ease" cell in the Tower of London look like a tennis court but now I was a-burstin' and knew there was no choice.
The eyes of our strapped-in Diane Wiest lookalike stewardess finally betrayed a promise of emotion as I unhooked my buckle and popped out of my seat.
"Is there any way I can use the washroom? I really thought we'd be on the ground by now!"
The sleeping pill in a uniform told me me: "Well, the seat belt sign is on so you shouldn't even be up..."
I heave a sigh and began to crawl back to my seat, predicting an eventuality wherein my fellow travelers will soon become very uncomfortable with my presence on the same aircraft they're on.
"Wait!" she says, picking up on my consternation. "I can't force you to go back to your seat. I just have to give you a formal warning."
I spun on my heels and rushed past her.
"Thank you! Thank you! I won't take long," I enthused, blatantly lying through my teeth.
Now folks, I won't go into the gory details here but when the 'ole bladderino reaches a certain capacity it takes a certain amount of, shall we say, patient coaxing to complete the venting process. This is difficult enough under the best of circumstances let alone whilst being bounced around in a broom closet after being told that standing upright right now is technically illegal.
I eventually squeeze out my ballast and beetle my way back to my seat, thanking the flight attendant liberally as I pass by. Her facial expression makes me consider the possibility that someone force-fed her a lemon while I was sequestered in the "Chamber of Pee and Fear".
My harrowing experience is so bad that I'm even leery to except free beer which the stewardess begins to provide for our inconvenience. Undaunted by my horrifying example, some of my fellow travelers begin the marination process in earnest, perhaps hoping that they won't feel anything when our fuel-deprived plane eventually crashes in a veil of fog.
I get a chance to see something I haven't seen since my university days: a landing at Stephenville airport. The conditions are crystal clear and despite some turbulence our pitch is well accomplished. Mercifully the co-pilot allows us to use cell phones to inform loved ones about delays and then lets us roam free-range out on the tarmac to stretch our legs.
Of course, I take this as a rare photo opportunity:
Eventually the uber-cool co-pilot re-appears, pouring over a handful of important-looking documents. He even allows people without phones to use his own cell to get in touch with family members. The dude gets major props for being so understanding and keeping us informed about what's going on.
Eventually we're herded back aboard the plane. Everybody takes the opportunity to use the washroom before we take off and soon the aroma between the Urine Coffin and the cabin proper is indistinguishable.
We're soon told via an announcement that we're going to try Halifax again. If that doesn't work we're off to Moncton, than, if neccessary, back to Stephenville (!).
The flight back was pretty tense. I preoccupied myself by losing twenty-six straight games of Solitaire on my iPod. The free beer continued to flow but the unknowns in our immediate future made me gun shy. Others didn't share my trepidations and by the end of it I'm sure some of my fellow passengers are so pickled even their dental records would have burned up at point of impact.
The hour-long flight felt like it took a week. The seat belt sign stayed on for the entire flight and it was considerably more bumpy that second time out.
Eventually we heard the announcement that we'd be landing soon but nothing we see gives any indication that this attempt will result in a different result.
It's was very dark out, the fog seemed preternaturally thick and the winds kicked the crap out of us as we descended.
This time, however, the landing gear came down and strip lights appeared from out of nowhere. I'm surprised there wasn't a round of applause as we touched down ever so gently. I reckon that this probably had lot to do with the fact that for a lot of my fellow travelers this was only just the first leg of an increasingly long journey.
When the plane door cracked open the half-dozen people seated in front of us jumped up anxiously. A woman standing right in front of us instinctively surged ahead, forcing the stewardess to ask for patience.
"She's just afraid yer gonna take off again!" one of the more inebriated passengers shouted, giving incarnation to all of our collective thoughts
Inside the terminal at the baggage carousel our suitcases made an unexpected but welcome quick appearance. I'm was grateful that after a brief cab ride we'd soon be home.
It's was close to 10 pm by the time we landed. Our flight had left at 4:30 and we should have been in Halifax only an hour later.
Was I pissed off? Not really. Certainly not nearly as upset as many people who were on that plane. It wasn't Air Canada's fault that the weather was shite. Frankly, I think they made the right call.
Remember back in April when beloved Polish President Lech Kaczynski was killed in a plane crash? Well, the flight recorders recently revealed that the pilots decided to land in heavy fog despite multiple warnings from air traffic controllers about poor visibility.
As I said in Part I, I fly not because I like it but because it allows me to see places in this world that are not easily reached as well as spend extra time with loved ones instead of wasting time in travel. To cope with this I've developed a Zen-like philosophy about air travel:
Always be a leaf in a river.
Use this as your mantra next time as you check bags, clear security and make your way to your next gate.
I promise you, you'll have more piece of mind and it'll make your journey infinitely more tolerable.
